


Grounded

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental block around orgasm, PWP, Rimming, Sexual Dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4094368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Valjean has been an earthbound creature for too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> This started as a response to the prompt "Valjean has difficulty climaxing because of religious guilt, Javert sets about changing that." In the end I couldn't really fit the religious aspect in there, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless! Thanks so much to S. for looking this over; all remaining mistakes/weirdnesses are my responsibility.

Javert's mouth is hot against his neck, his hand warm where it is wrapped around him; his thrusts are getting faster. Valjean closes his eyes, waits for the moment when Javert will groan and spend himself inside him, moan his name in breathless exhaustion. And then, his hand will work harder, he will press more kisses to Valjean's hair and throat and shoulder, lovingly, despairingly: _Will you not follow?_

He wants to but he cannot. Or he can, but does not want to. Either way, he won't follow, not tonight, perhaps not ever, and it would not pain him so but for the way it pains Javert.

 

~

 

Afterwards, they lie in silence, legs still tangled together. Valjean feels himself getting soft and longs for the peace that will come in a while. This half-state is worst of all. Javert is stretched out next to him, a hand on Valjean's chest, stroking it slowly. There is a tense and unhappy set to his mouth. 

Valjean reaches for his hand, covers it with his own. "There is no harm," he says. Javert stills and sighs. 

Would it be easier if he did not have any of these urges at all? Perhaps. For so many years he did not feel them. The years of his youth are a haze; surely there were nameless figures in his dreams back then, but he remembers none. Then, the years of darkness. In Toulon there is no love and no pleasure, only pain and lesser pain. 

But now, another life is unfolding for him. Now Javert is there, no longer a shadow or a nightmare, but living and real. From the dark figure of his memories a living man has grown; now he catches himself noticing the way Javert's hair is mussed during the morning, the nape of his neck when he removes his collar, the dark hair at the back of his hands. These things stir him, rousing desires he did not know he had. 

He cannot pretend he does not want it. When he is buried inside Javert, thrusting and thrusting in time with Javert's pleas for more, or when he spreads out beneath Javert in turn, closing his eyes and feeling himself open and pliant... There is nothing like it. He cannot pretend he could easily go without this now that he has learned how it feels: wonderful and terrifying both.

The terror lies in the abandonment of himself, the race of his pulse and the loss of his senses. He has been close, several times, but each time he flinches away, like a fledgling not yet daring to take that final step and test its wings. 

Valjean does not know how to fly. He has been an earthbound creature for too long. 

"Is it..." Javert pulls at his whiskers, rubs at his neck. "Is there anything I can do?" 

"It isn't you," he says, not knowing if the words will make it better or worse. Perhaps Javert would prefer to believe it was all his fault, all in his power to alter. "It's simply... I don't know if I can." 

"You can," Javert says, eyes intent and fierce as he turns to him, raising a large hand to cradle Valjean's cheek. "You can do anything." 

He forces a weak smile from his mouth. "Perhaps not this." 

Javert kisses him, lips hot and demanding. "You can," he whispers again as they both sink back down. "You can, you can."

Valjean closes his eyes again as Javert's hand curls around his prick once more. If this is a sin, he should not happily abandon Javert to it, but share it with him in all respects. He has already given his body in so many different ways; what sense is there in withholding this last piece of himself? Why not let Javert have this too, the joy of bringing him to completion, to watch him fall apart the way Valjean has seen him shatter, so many times?

There is no sense to it. All he knows is that he is afraid. 

Gently, he reaches for Javert's hand and pulls it away. After a moment, Javert relents, rolling over onto his back and passing a hand over his face. Valjean touches his shoulder but says nothing. There is nothing more to say.

 

~ 

 

He is running, light strides that grow longer and longer until he feels almost weightless, pale sky above and the wind cool on his face, his feet barely touching the ground between each long leap. It must be a dream, he thinks, but even so the spell is not broken, and he flies, again and again, lighter than a bird, no shackles holding him down, and he is free, he is free, he is free.

Then it fades and reality dawns. There is a mouth between his shoulderblades and a hand on his hip, and for a moment he freezes before remembering that he is safe, that the hot breath against his skin is a good thing, a welcome thing. Still sleepy, he shifts lightly, and Javert kisses his back again. The sensation of lips against the old scars is odd, but he is getting used to it. 

Javert's hand is moving in slow circles on his hip, undemanding, the way one would stroke a cat or some other animal: just for the pleasure of the touch. Valjean keeps his eyes closed, enjoying it. The dream has not entirely left him; he feels weightless, careless. Right now there are no demands being made of him save that he should rest like this, content under Javert's hands.

Then Javert shifts, moving lower. His mouth is hot and wet on the small of Valjean's back, his hands steady on his hips, holding him fast. Fast enough for him not to move, Valjean thinks in a brief flash of panic, and then corrects himself: no. Javert would not do that even if he could, even if he were the strongest of the two of them. If Valjean were to move, were to pull away, Javert would let him go; if he were to say no, Javert would stop, would release him...

He keeps still.

A kiss to where his back ends. Large hands gently spreading him apart. Valjean breathes heavily into the pillow, heat pooling low in his belly; he can feel himself tense along with the hardening of his flesh. He can put a stop to this, he thinks again. If he wants to, he can stop it, and he spreads his thighs a little, enough for Javert to let out a sigh of approval, rewarding him with another kiss, this time to the place where his right buttock meets his thigh. 

It is too good, and he pants as Javert's tongue pushes between his legs, hot and wet and shameless; he curls his hands in the sheets, feeling open and vulnerable, his hard prick rubbing against the mattress. Javert moans in appreciation, slides his tongue inside him, and he should put a stop to this, he could put a stop to this, if he but says the word, Javert will pull away, leave him alone.

"Please," he hears himself whisper, "please." It is not what he meant to say but it must be what Javert longs to hear, judging from his muffled groan, the way his hands tremble for a second where they remain firm on Valjean's backside. 

Then Javert pushes deeper, and Valjean gasps, chokes, pushes back; his pulse is racing now, fast, and he feels doomed, out of control, like a wild horse storming over the heaths toward certain death, death or flight -- 

Javert works a finger inside him, next to his tongue, the intrusion burns a little and then fades into pleasure, and he sobs, raising his hips, begging without words. Javert twists his finger, licking at the stretch, kissing it; another finger joins the first, sliding deep into him, pushing against that spot that makes him shiver, again and again, and it feels too raw and too good, and he is racing, he is running; there is Javert's tongue and fingers driving him towards the edge, and he should balk, he should stop, but it is too good and he can't think anymore, and Javert's other hand is warm on his hip, and he is safe, he is grounded, and the pressure builds and builds and builds until it breaks -- and he soars.

When it is over, he opens his eyes and realises they are wet with tears. His heart is racing still, but slowing down; his limbs are heavy. Javert's hands are on his hips again, caressing them like earlier. Javert's mouth is on the small of his back, muttering something again and again, and with a jolt Valjean realises it is his name. 

He moves, and the hands release their grip, as he knew they would. He rolles over onto his back and faces Javert, who is on his knees next to him, face flushed, sweaty strands of hair clinging to his brow. His eyes are a strange mixture of triumphant and tentative, questioning and hopeful. Valjean glances downwards, to Javert's hard prick where it juts out hard and unfulfilled, and Javert shifts nervously. 

"Valjean," he says, voice throaty. "Was it... Did you like it?" 

He sits up and reaches for Javert, cups a hand around his face. Javert's eyes flutter close as Valjean's other hand wrap around his prick, their breaths hot against each other's faces.

"More than you know," he says softly, kissing Javert's temple, tightening his grip. "Come now. Follow me."


End file.
